


Sure

by Sioux



Series: Twenty Past [1]
Category: Strike Back
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4662282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sioux/pseuds/Sioux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little missing scene type piece, prior to the very end of Strike Back : Legacy.  So, be warned, if you haven't yet seen that episode and don't want any little spoilers, don't read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sure

Opening a drawer he pulled shirts out and threw them on the bed next to an open, dark grey rucksack. Carefully shutting that drawer, so he could open the one underneath; two pairs of jeans and three pairs of cargo pants joined the shirts. Leaning down, intending to open the final drawer, he stopped, his face screwing up into a wincing frown as the movement pulled on his most recent scar on his left leg. It hadn't healed clean or quickly. He drew in a deep breath, carefully bending his knees slightly he slid out the final drawer, extracting underpants and socks to add to the growing pile on the bed.

As he straightened up a faint, muffled chink of metal against metal sounded in the room. Ignoring the sound he walked the seven steps from the bureau to the bed, each step marked by an almost ghostly rattle and chime from the thigh pocket of his cargo pants. 

Turning so he could see through the floor to ceiling windows out onto the poorer part of the city outside and the snow capped mountains beyond, he watched the shadow of the man outside slowly pacing the small balcony whilst he spoke into a burner mobile phone, untraceable and, at the end of the conversation in a few minutes, it would be unrecognisable as a phone after a heavy pair of boots had danced the Macarena all over it. 

Scott's voice a low drone which entwined with the murmur of traffic on the overpass running to one side of the small motel turning both sounds into a somnolent parody of bees buzzing in the warmth of an English summer garden. 

This place, one of many they had used, generally catered to tourists on a very tight budget. They deliberately chose places which had a high turnover of guests and stayed no more than three days, maximum, in each pension, apartment or hostel, never drawing attention to themselves, anonymous tourists in anonymous cities. Once, early on, they had stayed in separate accommodation, but that seemed to make them stand out. Ever since they had stayed together, it was also much easier on the nerves if they were both sleeping in the same room. 

Mike sat, the deep green coverlet on the bed radiating creases like the spokes of a bicycle wheel, his backside the centre point. Slowly he reached for the first shirt, a deep pink scar on the back of his right hand, puckering as his hand moved straightening the garment then folding it precisely, the method long ingrained and automatic.

Outside Scott terminated the call, exhaling the last of the smoke from his cigarette, then ground the tab underfoot until it became one with the grit on the concrete, demonstrating the maxim they had lived for the last ten weeks; leave no trace. He opened the back of the phone, extracting its sim card and battery. The sim he burnt with his lighter, holding onto the charring plastic until the very last second. He placed the rest of the unpacked phone in a double plastic bag, tied a knot in the end and dropped it on the floor then used the heels of his boots to break it into thousands of shards of plastic and circuitry. These they would distribute in bins, a few shards at a time, all over the next town. The battery would be dropped into the next largest body of water.

When the impromptu flamenco had ceased, Mikey said, 'Olé!' thereby earning him a dirty look and a middle finger rampant, from his comrade on the balcony. He hid his smile in the crease between the right arm and body of his blue shirt.

Scott came into the room, ushering in a gust of cigarette and exhaust fumes, momentarily allowing the full volume noise into the room before he shut the sliding door again. Without haste he picked up another rucksack from the farther side of the bed and unceremoniously upended it on the bed. Dollars, euros and pounds sterling spilled across the coverlet. Mikey took no notice of the riches inches from his leg and continued to placidly fold his clothes and pack them away. When he'd finished, he looked up and lifted an eyebrow.

Scott rubbed his hand across his bearded face and nodded.

'Frankfurt. Friday. Noon flight. Four days of globe hopping. Then home. You're overland; rail, car, chunnel into London. You start tonight, twenty ten train.'

Whilst he was speaking, Scott divvied up the funds precisely, then took Mike's rucksack and opened out a flattened area which sat between the frame and wearer's body and proceeded to pack half of the high denomination notes so they lay flat. The expensive extra padding wasn't noticeable at all once the frame was clipped back into position.

Once Scott had finished, Mikey stood, crowding into Scott's personal space, close enough to breathe each other's air. 

'You're sure? No going back after this?'

Scott nodded. He put his hand in his pocket and extracted his dog tags, then slid them into Mike's pocket, adding to the collection already in there.

His eyes boring into Mike's, he communicated his total commitment to the plan they had spent many weeks perfecting, then he held Mike's face between his hands and leant forward, Mike, raising his own hands to Scott's face, meeting him half way, their foreheads resting together, eyes sliding closed, each peacefully breathing in the other.

'Mikey, for fuck's sake, be careful,' Scott said, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes still closed. 'That bastard shot Locke and Li-Na in front of witnesses. He won't hesitate to off you, in his office or not.'

'Yeah, he will. Brains and blood is hell to get out of the upholstery!'

Scott shook him, gently. He didn't like even the thought of not being there to back-up Stonebridge, but Mike had argued, long and hard, that this way gave them the best chance of living to see out a few more years. And, for good measure, he had mercilessly played the 'Finn' card.

'Be careful!' Scott ordered, blue eyes fierce, ignoring Mikey's joke as it curled up and died, alone and unmourned.

'I will. Trust me.'

'With my life, brother.'

The corner of Mike's mouth tilted up at the corner. 'If I don't make it to the rendezvous, raise Hell for me!'

Scott's grip tightened, his jaw clenching, only muscles now protesting the thought of the probable outcome, where for six solid weeks his words and even his fists had protested, long and hard. But Stonebridge had lived up to his surname, he was determined Scott should have his freedom to live for himself and to be a father to Finn, even if that meant sacrificing his own life and future freedom to do so. The way to gain that freedom, hopefully for both, is a simple idea, but to get there it had taken a lot of complex planning, once Scott had finally given in and agreed.

Scott raised his head and kissed Mike's forehead; benediction, blessing and protection.  
The deliberate touch of his lips to skin a prayer to any deity who will listen; keep this man, this other half of my heart and soul, safe until we can be together again.

Together, they look out for each other, always had, always would.

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously can't believe that the talented writers in this fandom haven't been writing pages and pages after the end of Legacy - it just cries out for MORE!


End file.
